If you hang around men over sixty - and sometimes younger - you will hear the word "prostate" at some point in the conversation, and you probably won't have to wait to long. You are too young to read this if you think I intended to write the word "prostrate."
Invariably the conversation skips over one of the recurring challenges in the male geezgeist, and that has to do with what the doctors like to call "voiding," but the rest of us use more accessible words and phrases - among them - peeing, whizzing, spending a penny, seeing a man about a dog, a cruise ticket, or almost anything else which has nothing to do with what we're talking about.
For many years I did not acquire a full refined GPS (Geographical Peeing System). It was at a performance of Shakespeare's Twelfth Night. I had enjoyed a couple of glasses of something before the performance and failed to complete my preparations for the play with what we call a "pit stop." I didn't know that Act One was one hour and fifty-two minutes long, not including applause.
I still hold the intergalactic record for the "loo dash" in that theatre, and that experience taught me what my elders already knew: you have to do a continual assessment of your bladder, your present and immediate future locations, and the distance to an appropriate porcelain appliance.
With a well designed GPS system, along with tending to one's intake and observing the royal custom of always stopping when the opportunity is presented, one can avoid the need to cross one's legs, to bite the lip, to think of the desert, and so on. Such defensive strategies just do in whatever you are doing which keeps you from going down the hall. At the play, I kept thinking, "Why in hell didn't he call it Second Night, why in such flowerly Elizabethan language, doesn't the audience know that laughter delays the onset of my relief, why didn't they break after the scene just ended, why are thirty five year old directors with really healthy bladders putting their male elders through the hell of a such a long first act?" and not about the wonderful performance I was, on the surface, enjoying.
Crossing the trail of the sixties and beyond makes us better planners, and that is probably a good thing.
Saturday, August 25, 2007
The Inconvenience of Conveniences
After a certain age in the male of our species, the word prostate tends to take on a special meaning, and men begin to develop their own internal GPS (Geographical Planning System) based on proximity to a toilet.
At a recent gathering, one of my friends told me he'd seen a local production of the semi-musical comedy "1776."
"How did you like it?" I asked.
"First act was one hour and forty-five minutes long."
He had given me essential information, and I appreciated having it. Then we forged ahead with a chat about the production. His response reminded me of the night in the theatre when the Globe Theatre of London was presenting "Twelfth Night." I had had a couple of drinks beforehand, but when the first act went past an hour and a half, I began to be concerned, and then I went into the standard drill - cross the legs tight, think about anything no liquid, bite the inside of the cheeks, hope, pray...the usual.
At the one hour and fifty two minute mark, the applause began, and I set the Guthrie Theatre World Record for the Men's Room Dash.
Anyway, in geezerhood, one measures one's intake against "porcelain proximity," and one takes advantage of every opportunity to lighten up.
When the my hip was deteriorating, I came to appreciate bathrooms for the handicapped - they are sometimes near than regular conveniences, and thus, more convenient. I have been known to utilize a one person women's facility when the men's was occupied, locked, and the need was great.
At a recent gathering, one of my friends told me he'd seen a local production of the semi-musical comedy "1776."
"How did you like it?" I asked.
"First act was one hour and forty-five minutes long."
He had given me essential information, and I appreciated having it. Then we forged ahead with a chat about the production. His response reminded me of the night in the theatre when the Globe Theatre of London was presenting "Twelfth Night." I had had a couple of drinks beforehand, but when the first act went past an hour and a half, I began to be concerned, and then I went into the standard drill - cross the legs tight, think about anything no liquid, bite the inside of the cheeks, hope, pray...the usual.
At the one hour and fifty two minute mark, the applause began, and I set the Guthrie Theatre World Record for the Men's Room Dash.
Anyway, in geezerhood, one measures one's intake against "porcelain proximity," and one takes advantage of every opportunity to lighten up.
When the my hip was deteriorating, I came to appreciate bathrooms for the handicapped - they are sometimes near than regular conveniences, and thus, more convenient. I have been known to utilize a one person women's facility when the men's was occupied, locked, and the need was great.
It's Our Stupid Memories...Or Is It Memories, Stupid? I Just Can't Remember.
It's true - your memory becomes unpredictable as you age, especially for the names of things and people. At a recent dinner party, several potentially amusing stories were interrupted by such lapses, and either the story got completely derailed or it dragged out until it collapsed like an unsuccessful souffllé.
Here's an example:
I watched that movie the other night, the one about a princess in Italy, you know....what's her name?
Was it the one with Gregory Peck?
I don't remember, but there was a man riding a bicycle with her, and she had dark hair...it might have been, Cary...um....
Grant.
Brown or black?
No, Grant, G-R-A-N-T.
I meant her hair.
Well, the film was in black and white, so I don't know.
She was also in "My Fair Lady."
Oh, Julie Andrews.
No, the film - and she didn't do her own singing.
Julie Andrews can't sing any more...something about her vocal cords.
Kather...NO, IT WAS AUDREY HEPBURN!
Not Julie Andrews - you're sure?
Absolutely yes I am.
And the man was William Hold...
No! Gregory Peck...it was Greg Peck.
He was good.
And even better in To Kill - what?
A Mockingbird, by Harper Lee.
Yeah, right. You're good.
Wait, wait - it was called something Holiday.
Italian....no....no....no....
Roman Holiday!
[Smiles all around]
This happens all the time now, but I have uncovered a solution, and I do not mean this in a humorous way . Each of us in the geezer category needs to create a couple of names, one male and one female who will stand in for the forgotten name, a congenial substitute which will allow the story to move forward without delay. In most cases, this allows the narrating geezer to appear more "with it," informed, and in the current century.
I use the name William Masterson, unless the story is sports-related, in which case he becomes Biff Masterson. The female name I borrowed from the name of a publisher who works with a friend of mine, and she is Enid Harmon.
One should never select such names as Ben Dover, Throckmorton P. Gildersleeve, Egbert Souse, Larsen E. Whipsnade, Henry Aldrich or Pneumonia Vanderfeller. If you are among geezers one of them might recognize these, but they would be reasonably safe in crowds of the young.
When I am asked who directed that great production at the (Fill In The Blank) Theatre, I can say knowingly , "One of William Masterson's best efforts in many years." If someone knows the real name and corrects me, all I have to say is, "Well, the old noggin has let me down again," and feign knocking my head with a closed fist.
Darn near foolproof.
Here's an example:
I watched that movie the other night, the one about a princess in Italy, you know....what's her name?
Was it the one with Gregory Peck?
I don't remember, but there was a man riding a bicycle with her, and she had dark hair...it might have been, Cary...um....
Grant.
Brown or black?
No, Grant, G-R-A-N-T.
I meant her hair.
Well, the film was in black and white, so I don't know.
She was also in "My Fair Lady."
Oh, Julie Andrews.
No, the film - and she didn't do her own singing.
Julie Andrews can't sing any more...something about her vocal cords.
Kather...NO, IT WAS AUDREY HEPBURN!
Not Julie Andrews - you're sure?
Absolutely yes I am.
And the man was William Hold...
No! Gregory Peck...it was Greg Peck.
He was good.
And even better in To Kill - what?
A Mockingbird, by Harper Lee.
Yeah, right. You're good.
Wait, wait - it was called something Holiday.
Italian....no....no....no....
Roman Holiday!
[Smiles all around]
This happens all the time now, but I have uncovered a solution, and I do not mean this in a humorous way . Each of us in the geezer category needs to create a couple of names, one male and one female who will stand in for the forgotten name, a congenial substitute which will allow the story to move forward without delay. In most cases, this allows the narrating geezer to appear more "with it," informed, and in the current century.
I use the name William Masterson, unless the story is sports-related, in which case he becomes Biff Masterson. The female name I borrowed from the name of a publisher who works with a friend of mine, and she is Enid Harmon.
One should never select such names as Ben Dover, Throckmorton P. Gildersleeve, Egbert Souse, Larsen E. Whipsnade, Henry Aldrich or Pneumonia Vanderfeller. If you are among geezers one of them might recognize these, but they would be reasonably safe in crowds of the young.
When I am asked who directed that great production at the (Fill In The Blank) Theatre, I can say knowingly , "One of William Masterson's best efforts in many years." If someone knows the real name and corrects me, all I have to say is, "Well, the old noggin has let me down again," and feign knocking my head with a closed fist.
Darn near foolproof.
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